My Hair Is Awesome
by VengefulMothSlayer
Summary: [ON PERMANENT HIATUS] When Fletcher overhears a conversation between the Italy brothers, he finds himself yet again sucked into a wold he doesn't entirely understand... Rated T for Romano's foul mouth, set in Australia after Death Bringer.
1. Of Gay Italians

**A/N**

**So I was over at someone's house (parent's friends), had been there over 6 hours, and was utterly bored. Guess what I do. **

**Write a crossover Skulduggery Pleasant- Hetalia: Axis Power fanfic!**

**As you do. **

**Beware, guys, I did break the fourth wall a **_**couple**_** times. *gets hit by rotten tomato* Sorry! It was in the name of the Plot! Such as it is! **

**Enjoy~ aru!**

The streetlights winked dully against the black sky, orange and amber and white.

Fletcher was all alone at the edge of Lake Burleygriffin, hands shoved deeply into his pockets against Canberra's chill night air.

At least, he had thought he was alone.

Two gay men were walking along ahead of him and appeared to be engaging in some sort of domestic disagreement- at least one of them was, the other seemed to be obsessed with pasta. They both spoke with a distinctive Italian accent.

"Ve~ I was at the pasta place the other day, and they made up a new special recipe! Ve~ it was delicious!"

"I wish you would say that sort of stuff about me, once in a while," the other said.

His partner looked up at him for a moment- then scooted quickly to the other side of the pavement. "Ve~ they gave me a discount because I was a special customer! I'm special!" He said excitedly.

The Italians were alike enough to have been twins- the only difference was that the pasta-obsessed one that spoke in ve~s had lighter brown hair. They were both short and slight, and wearing suits- though the pasta one was wearing blue and the other was wearing a light green-brown.

"You say that kind of shit to the fucking potato- bastard all the time!"

"Ve~ he _is_ my boyfriend, fratello."

Ah. So they _were_ twins… just having an extremely awkward conversation.

"I bet you checked out the same fucking room at fucking Rydges that he did! The dark one yelled.

"V-Ve~ yes?" his brother whimpered.

"Fucking bullshit, Italy! I'm your fucking brother, your fucking twin, I'm Romano, I should have shared a room with you! But you shared with fucking Germany-bastard, so I had to share with that fucking bastard Spagna!" There were blue lines running down his face. Was it some kind of sickness?

Fletcher frowned. Italy? Romano? Germany? Spagna- Spain?

What the fuck!

The one called Italy randomly pulled out a white flag and started yelling "FLAP! FLAP! FLAP!" as he waved it in front of his face.

_Wow_, Fletcher thought. _He didn't say Ve~ once._

_Shit just got serious. _

Romano reached into his pocket and brought out a tomato, then started nomming while he yelled, spraying Italy with tomato juice and seeds.

"_**Guys, you really need to stop yelling at each other!"**_

Romano, Italy and Fletcher looked up at the sky. He had _no idea _where that random voice had just come from.

"Grandpa Rome!" Italy yelled, putting down his white flag. "Grandpa Rome!"

"_**No, I'm not your fucking grandpa Rome! I'm a chick, for starters, and I'm not a country, I'm an author!" Oh, shit, just broke the fourth wall again. Sorry folks. **_

"Not Grandpa Rome?" Italy said, looking confused.

Fletcher teleported behind a nearby tree, trying to straighten out his tangled thoughts. So these two were twins, one called Italy and one called Romano, and Italy was dating a guy called Germany, who Romano didn't like, and Romano was sharing a room with a guy called Spain, who Romano also didn't like.

Fletcher quickly identified a common theme. Romano didn't like anyone.

So were they nicknames… or something else?

"_**Hurry up and guess, I want to get on with the plot!"**_

There was that weird voice again.

So there were only a few possibilities.

They were nicknames

They were all representatives of each respective country and therefore referred to each other by the country name

They were the personifications of countries.

The first one was a lot like the second. The second was unlikely because Italy and Romano were twins, and therefore should probably have been born in the same country.

So they were the personifications of countries then.

Fletcher found himself wondering what happened when a new country popped up.

"_**Well, you see, Fletcher, when a mommy country and a daddy country love each other very much…" Man, I need to stop doing this. **_

"God, please, I _don't need to know_," Fletcher yelled, and then he felt a hand clamp on his shoulder. He was pulled out onto the footpath and then he turned to face his attacker.

"Woah," he said, putting his hands in the air. "Easy, dude. Don't touch the hair."

The guy was _huge_, and wearing an extremely pissed- off expression. He had a suit on that was lighter blue than Italy's, and was more military-style. He had slicked-back blonde hair and sideburns and his eyes were a bright, sky-blue. Just like Romano, he appeared to have blue lines tattooed down his face.

"Was is das1?" he yelled, looking between him and the gays. "And what is with your hair?"

Fletcher rolled his eyes at the angry German. "God, what is everyone's problem with my hair? It is awesome! Awesome, I tell you!"

The blond man's frown grew even more intense, if that was even possible. "Still sein, Dummkopf2,' he said, then turned to the two Italians.

His shoulders slumped and he facepalmed. "Why is it always you two?"

They proceeded to point at and blame each other, although Italy got distracted halfway through by a moth that was fluttering around the lights.

Germany turned to him. "How much do you know?" he asked wearily. Or at least that's what he probably meant to say, because halfway through he got glomped by Italy.

Fletcher hesitated, then stuck out his hand. "I'm Fletcher Renn. And you must be… Germany?"

Germany shook his head and grabbed him by the arm. "Where are you from?"

"London originally, but I've spent the last few years in Ireland, mostly Dublin."

Germany nodded then muttered to himself, "We'll have to take him to England, then."

**Ok, I know that wasn't exactly scintillating, but hang in there. It does get more interesting. **

**However, If I don't get at least one review, I'll take it down and you'll never meet Ireland! *makes threatening growling noises***

**Anyway, thank Christ for Google Translate! Sorry for butchering the language of any German-speakers out there. **

**What is this**

**Be quiet, imbecile**

**Ve~ see y'all soon! **


	2. Of Multiple Eyebrow Disorder

**Thankyou! OMG two reviews! **

**That was actually a lot better reception than I thought… **

**And many thanks to NekoAmi1216 for being my first reviewer! *gives cookies and glomps***

**Oh, And Ezzy? Don't call me booboo. I WILL call you Aggie in return. **

**The translations are at the end of the chapter! **

**Laters! **

_I have been in weirder situations than this_, Fletcher reminded himself silently. _I have. _

But in the end, he didn't really think he had. In all the other weird situations he had known, at least a little bit, what was going on. Now he had no idea.

The German had pulled him by the arm all the way to Rydges and deposited him in the middle of the waiting room while he went and talked to the checkin- checkout girl. [what do they call those people again? He could never remember]

Italy gave him a hug and introduced himself as Veneziano and his brooding brother as Romano. Seriously, Romano could have given the constipated guy in TWILIGHT a run for his money.

Fletcher pushed that thought away as soon as it came. Twilight had vampires in it… and he didn't like to think about vampires. It always made him feel like punching something.

On the other hand, who exactly were these people? And what was with their stupid names? Fletcher had never put much store in his cranial capacity, and he was beginning to regret it.

Germany walked over and grabbed Fletcher by the arm yet again. He was promptly glomped by the overenthusiastic Italian, but aside from a slightly irritated expression, he seemed not to notice at all. "America and France are with England at the moment, but it can't be helped," he announced, half-dragging Fletcher over to the elevators. "Dass blutigen amerikanischen1… He is extremely stubborn. And I don't want to think about france at the moment."

Fletcher had the feeling he was fighting back the urge to swear.

They crammed into an elevator next to a terrified man who looked like a bank accountant. The doors opened at the second floor and the accountant hurried out, looking over his shoulder at Romano with fear in his eyes. Romano glared back.

They stopped again at level 3-

_**Why the fuck does the elevator keep on stopping? Just get the fuck on with it!**_

The accountant reappeared, checking through his notes. "Well, ma'am, it's stopping because you told it to."

_**I did no such thing! And why the fuck are you answering me, shitty little half-assed OC? You don't even have a fucking name! **_

"Why, thank-you, ma'am," he said, adjusting his spectacles. "And yes, you did actually say here that the elevator had to stop a second time to allow Spain to get on."

_**Shut up, you IMBECILE! You just ruined the surprise!**_

The accountant rolled his eyes and facepalmed. "Really, it wasn't that much of a surprise in the first place."

_**Oh, just you wait. I have something so horrible in store for you…**_

"Ma'am, this is a humorous fic. You therefore can't have me die a horrible death."

_**Oh, yes, I can. I am the AUTHOR! As long the death is humorous. **_

"Ve~ what is a fic, Germany?" Italy asked, looking at the accountant curiously. "And why does the strange voice that is not Grandpa Rome say its name is Arthur even though that is a male name and the voice is female?"

Germany shivered and patted Italy on the head. "I do not know," he said, looking dramatically into the middle distance. "But it bodes ill for our free will."

_**Ahaha! That rhymes! Oh, shit, this wall is in ruins… **_

The accountant vanished again and the elevator doors finally opened, revealing a short man in a lemon-yellow blouse. Yes, blouse, with poofy sleeves and all. Fletcher hoped that horrible fashion sense wasn't catching.

"Hola!" he said, entering the elevator and standing next to Romano, whose face began to boil red with rage. "Oh, Lovi, su cara parece un tomate2…" he said, glomping the Italian.

Romano's face contorted with rage and he struggled out of the Spaniard's grip, yelling: "Oi! scendere me, cazzo bastardo di pomodoro!3"

"Spain," Germany grunted. "This isn't a great time."

"Perra por favour4," Spain muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets. "It is always a good time to be with my Lovi."

"Wunderbar5," Germany muttered. "Das ist verdammt wunderbar. Treten der Partei verdammte… Don't you have anything else to do?"

"I don't know what you said, amigo, but it didn't sound very nice," Spain said in his cheerful voice.

_**Just remember, kids! If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it in English! Now repeat after me: **_איך בין גערעדט אין פאַקינג ייִדיש און איר קענען ניט פאַקינג פאַרשטיין מיר_**, **_איר קליין פאַקינג הור פון אַ פּראָסטיטוטקע_**-**_טאַש_**! [English: I am speaking in fucking Yiddish and you can't fucking understand me, you little fucking bitch of a whore-bag!] **__**By the way, don't check that in Google translate, lost in translation apparently **__**…**__**Moving on! **_

Fletcher looked at the ceiling of the elevator and shook his head slowly. "Whoever this Arthur person is, she evidently likes swearing just as much as Romano…"

The doors pinged open at the 5th floor and theyt exited, plus one person. They stopped at room 513 and Germany knocked.

The door was opened by someone who was most definitely _not_ English. But Fletcher most definitely _was_ a little in awe of him.

"Yo, dudes, wassup? Germany, my homie, how's it hangin?"

Germany winced. "Just… fine… and you, America?"

"Oh, I'm great!" America yelled, as if trying to make up for the fact he didn't have a megaphone. "But I-" And here he took a giant mouthful of the burger he had in his hand, continuing to talk all through until me finally surfaced. "And I was like, I had no idea he had played Call Of Duty before! And he went-" and again his dialogue was interrupted by a giant bite of hamburger. "Amazing at Twister! And I was so totally shocked!" he said.

Germany massaged his temples and said slowly, "Yes, America, that was very interesting. We would like to see England now, if we could."

America nodded enthusiastically and backed out of the doorway.

"Sure, man! Come on in! But I must warn you, it smells a little smokey 'cause Iggy was cooking earlier. Well, if you can call that cooking."

"Oi, git! I'll have you know that my recipes are much better than anything you could come up with, insolent tosser!"

A man came up the hallway from behind America and Fletcher could only stare for a moment at what had to be the hugest freaking eyebrows in the freaking universe. They were like predictions of the Apocalypse. Cavemen told stories about people who had gotten lost in those eyebrows. Hell, there was probably the only surviving _T-rex_ in those bloody eyebrows.

While Fletcher had been staring at the Brit's eyebrows, the American had replied with what was possibly the best-thought-out insult of all time, also known as a meme.

"Nope!"

The Brit rolled his eyes. "_Nope_. Amazing. That is probably the stupidest thing I have ever heard in my _life_, and that includes all the indefinably stupid plans you came up with to beat Germany. No offense intended," he said, glancing quickly at Germany. "Everyone in this room is a little stupider for having heard it. May god have mercy on your soul. Wait, who's the brat?" he said, finally looking at Fletcher and doing a double take. The hair again.

_Don't mess this up,_ Fletcher said to himself. _Don't say anything stupid_.

"Do you have multiple-eyebrow disorder?" He asked.

**OK, TRANSLATIONS! **

**I'm really sorry if I butchered your language or something, I used Google Translate for everything. Please don't kill me! I'm a virgin!**

**Dass blutigen amerikanischen- that bloody American**

**su cara parece un tomate- your face looks like a tomato**

**Oi! scendere me, cazzo bastardo di pomodoro!- Oi! Get off me, fucking tomato bastard! **

**Perra por favor- bitch please**

**Wunderbar- wonderful **

**Das ist verdammt wunderbar. Treten der Partei verdammte… – that's fucking wonderful. Join the fucking party… **


	3. Of Punching and Peas

**OMG more reviews! *cries with happiness* God, you guys are so great! **

**Excuses: they confiscated my laptop. But there is no excuse for leaving it so long before that. *cries***

**OK, I know I'm an asshole for not updating forever. It's true. You could kill me… But then I would never give you the other half of this chapter~**

**And yes, that is my excuse for the length of this bloody chapter. Smaller than a Korean bloody penis. **

**I love you and I wrote this in a rush, so sue me. **

"Alright, brat. Let's teach you some manners," England said, rolling up a sleeve of his pale dress shirt.

"No please! I'm a virgin! It would be no fun to punch a v-"

"I disagree," England said, planting a truly beautiful right hook on Fletcher's jaw.

The strangled noise that came from his mouth placed a beatific smile in England's face (not that you could see it past his eyebrows) as Fletcher's head rebounded backwards and hit the wall, making a dull _boing_ noise (much like Ukraine's breasts or Hungary's frying pan) off the wall. He slid down it with a squishy noise only usually found in cartoons.

"Hey! I've never heard that noise out of cartoons!" America said, grinning widely.

England rolled his eyes affectionately. "Where do you think they get the sound recording from, twit?"

"You mean they just stand there, punching people and recording it?"

"Pretty much, yeah," England said.

"Sounds like your dream job," said America, and he got punched too. England didn't deny it, though.

"Hey!" Fletcher yelled from the floor. "Anybody got some frozen peas?"

Germany, America and England looked at each other had shrugged. Italy, of course, couldn't see. Spain and Romano were too busy humping each other in the corner.

_**How do you like them apples, SpUK followers? **_

Germany frowned. America smiled dumbly and asked, "Dafuq was that?!"

"I'll never understand that Author girl. But she's damn sexy."

_**Oh thanks sweetie! You can't see me and I just forced you to say that. But whatevs. Also I think we're getting a little off-topic. Here's some frozen peas, my little squidling!**_

Fletcher frowned. "Hey what-"

That was when a bag of frozen peas appeared (mysteriously) and hit him over the head.

England nodded in approval. "I may have been forced to call you sexy earlier, but I have a feeling I would have liked you, back in my pirate days."

_**Shucks, Artie. Anyways! On with the plot, such as it is! Enter France!**_

"Ah, L'Angleterre~ I always knew you had a weakness for fictional characters~"

France came out of the bathroom wearing only a towel and a lecherous grin.

"Oi, frog! I do not have a weakness for fictional characters!"

_**And I'm not bloody fictional, you paedophilic twat!**_

France chuckled and nodded to Spain. "Menage a trois," he whispered, winking, then approached England from behind, slipping an arm around his slender waist.

"Paris is better than London~" he whispered in Angleterre's ear, smiling a sickly-sweet gri-

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH~"

England's previous right hook, while beautiful, was definitely outshone by this one. And this time he didn't even have the decency to punch him in the jaw, instead aiming directly for the nose. There was a subdued, delicate, sound of bone crunching. One of the purest sounds in the known Universe, England supposed. Unfortunately, France fell over and his towel unravelled. It was a good thing Italy had his eyes closed, because otherwise he would have had no innocence left.

Fletcher got up, looking over at England. "Two on one?" he asked.

England grinned.

That was when all Hell broke loose.

O~o~8

**I'll be back soon my squidlings, I promise! **

**Reviews are like nitrous for my writing! But they taste like cookies! And vodka! **


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